They will be men


When we were kids
we were told we could be
anything we wanted….

Quantum physicists

We were told
We’d get rich
We’d marry royalty

The stars in our
parents imaginations
We began where their dreams ended

But we did not just belong to ourselves
Our families
and our countries

We belonged to our traditions
Our destinies
Our circles of life


We the strong young boys
We the prettiest boys

We just wanted to be bad boys
To run loose with the bad boys
To live their nocturnal lives

Furrowing our brows at girls
Lighting their cigarettes
Nibbling on either end of a French fry

We wanted to be the bad boys
Have stong stomachs like cats do
And untarnishable lungs

But time kneads
Times kneads
and it kneaded us


Into fine young men
who nonetheless looked like we
did not take care of ourselves

And then there was that night
in our late twenties
When we got thrown out of a strip club

Everyone was there
And those who were not were told
Men are terrible gossips too

This is not the life anymore
we thought
And so we fell in love

and married
and lived happily ever after
We the good boys

We the husbands
The fathers
The men

The simple men
As loyal as dogs
Because we were good men

With love in us
With no No in us
When we were cared for

The distance in fathers
Are fathers reliving their youth
Let us be very gentle

When we are writing
About our fathers
Their love was love

but a man’s love
is never what it seems
A man’s I love you

is the result
of centuries’ quests
When it arrives

it is like a sculpture


Fast poem


In our fast paced world, we all will succumb to the occasional stress dreams. Usually the cause is an issue of time, time is running out, or we are trying to make it somewhere on the nick of time, only to wake up before we found out if we did. In our lives, we don’t always manage to achieve closure with everyone who might have crossed us, which is why we are left with a restless sense of injustice that at worst might give us night terrors. All our lives are partially known, but partially unknown to us. The best we can do is try to untangle the knot but if a knot is not immediately discernible, write a poem, or several, until you sleep safe and sound again. It might happen sooner than you think.

Prescient Poem


It is still uncanny though common we style ourselves according to TV shows. Mad Men brought back the clean-shaved, neat fringe; the gent. Mad Men also took the concept of the antihero whose ends we thought we’d seen in The Sopranos: but Don Draper was our new haunted Everyman. Perhaps the 20th century, with its zero taunting its brand, was a “negative space” for writing, particularly literature. Kafka, Camus et al. Camus & Kafka both created an anti-hero, a predator, whether preying upon others or oneself, that we all, in a conditioned way, came to be. This prescience in the arts is why artists should spend time on creating new archetypes rather than disestablishing old ones.

Where our wilderness meets our divinity


The universe was not designed
with a panopticon in mind

Unfettered Capitalism
needs not a lab analysis

to be construed
as predatory

Our greatest Frankestein moment
A monster created to challenge our Unbeatable God

by very essense
(What is that fragrance?)

Before you air your scruples

recall that the universe was designed
for you to take a journey

To be a Ulysses
(Homer not Joyce of course)

a Jason
a wolf

an ibex
It is a Sunday morning

Clocks leapt forward an hour
And there was an apocalypse

A revealing of what was well hidden
like a love poem written by an otherwise savage

Anglo Saxon warrior circa 862 A.D.
for an almond tree he had fallen in love with

An almond tree with a captivating
female singing voice, tantamount to diva

A windy drizzly morning
in South London

and I’ve opened the windows
because I have lightly overtoasted my slices of brioche

and the wind is howling through the house
like a howl of pain and pain being released

and I feel protected
from across a great distance

and with that love new life
for the trees

Even the buildings
as they are extracted

with the roads and
all the cities

are indundated
with trees

Love reaching

across great divides
reflected by mirrors and artists

alike on its way
into our cold hearts


Eighth art


It was an Italian gentleman who lived in Paris named Riccioto Canudo who gave us the phrase “seventh art” in 1912. He listed the other six as follows:
and argued that cinema was a plastic art in motion, plastic because it synthesized all the previous artforms, most of whom were designed in Antiquity.


Having observed both the many downfalls and few but consequential triumphs of cinema, we who watch popular culture like spectators watch an often brutal  sport, all may agree that an eighth and a ninth and even a tenth type of art is being generated through primarily multimedia approaches before our very own eyes. Perhaps blogging itself, the immediate publication of a text that would, had it be written over ten years ago, would scarcely see the light of day, is creeping into this category. Blogging, unfettered and all-inclusive as it is, might just be establishing itself as a new art.


We all live partially in the public, all-seeing eye of the Internet, and this has not only affected our lives, but the works of art we all perpetually obsessively and lovingly distill and crystallise our lives into, now in a flash! Art as a hammer to analogue clocks. Digital clocks set themselves.